


Time and the Fates of Men: Percussion

by Marguerite



Series: Time and the Fates of Men [2]
Category: West Wing
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:37:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marguerite/pseuds/Marguerite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leo gets them through the night. "He's stable. Which is more than I can say for the rest of us right about now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and the Fates of Men: Percussion

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at the end of "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen." Second part of a three-part series.

# Percussion

Rhythm. Rhythm. The beat of a heart, distorted, magnified through electronics until it fills the room. It's a welcome sound. It speaks to you.

Alive. Alive.

The alternative is something you don't want to think about.

You keep your hand on Josh's shoulder while the President ruffles his hair and smiles down at him. "I'll tell you what's next," the President says, and even with all the sounds in the room you can hear the fear in his voice. "You get some sleep, Josh. Next can wait."

Josh's eyes don't open again but the lids flutter. "Donna..."

"She's okay," you assure him. "She's in the waiting room. You want to see her?"

Josh nods. The tempo of his heart increases and the monitor's intensifying pace makes your own pulse beat faster.

A doctor's voice, the voice of reason, floats above the beeping. "He really shouldn't have more than one person in here with him, sir."

"Then I'll go," says the President, and you suddenly remember that he's in pajamas and a robe because he was shot, too, and you feel sick and helpless. "The First Lady will put me on a diet of gruel and weak tea if I don't get back to my room." He looks at you and his face is long and pale. "We'll get Donna for you. You be good, Josh."

Josh turns his face toward you and his eyes open, focusing slowly. His pupils are black with anesthesia and confusion. "Who else...shot?"

You exchange glances with the President. You'd better have your stories straight tonight. Beat. Beat. You let him answer the question.

"Nothing serious, Josh. Everyone's fine, we're good. Try and get some rest, and we'll bring Donna."

The mouth that never stops can't seem to form a whole word, and it scares the shit out of you that all Josh can say is "...mkay." You have to turn away. You have to get out of that room before the rhythm drives you into remorseful madness.

Your hand shakes as you reach for the doorknob. You're too old to go without sleep and far, far too old to watch the people you love be put in harm's way. You watch the First Lady lead the President away and hear her say something about Butterfield's wound being in good shape, and that the woman from the crowd is resting comfortably. It's only Josh who is in real danger. Only Josh.

Noah sent you photos, you recall, first of a tiny newborn girl, then a few years later a dimpled baby boy in the arms of his grinning sister, both with the same auburn curls and sweet brown eyes. You remember the pain of seeing the boy grow up in photographs while the girl's face stopped changing after her seventh-grade school picture.

Thank God, thank God, you don't have to tell Marjorie Lyman that she's outlived both her children. You breathe a sigh of relief and put the mental image of Joanie out of your head. You make a mental note - one of thousands floating in your head - to have someone from Secret Service pick her up at the airport when the red-eye gets in.

Finally you can't put it off any longer and you head for the waiting room. Instead of a crowd, you see only Donna and Mrs. Landingham. Donna is white and still, her hands folded limply in her lap, and she's staring off into the middle distance. Mrs. Landingham is comforting her in silence, patting her on the back and stroking her hair.

"Excuse me," you murmur, and the women look up at you with so much fear in their faces that you force your weary muscles into what you hope is a smile. "He's awake. The doctor says he looks pretty good, considering."

"Considering...?" You'd be better at this if Donna's voice weren't so tremulous.

"Have you ever seen anyone come out of anesthesia after a long operation?" Donna shakes her head and you see her trying to process what you're saying. "Believe me, I've seen worse." You take the seat on her other side and put your arm around her shoulders. "Where's everyone else?"

"I sent them to get something to eat. They were hovering and annoying her," Mrs. Landingham says with disdain dripping from her voice.

Donna doesn't seem to hear her. Her gaze is focused on you and you know you're all she can hear. "Tell me what his chances are," she whispers.

"The doctor's pretty hopeful."

"What do you think, Leo?"

You smile at her because she looks so lost and afraid. "Josh is a tough guy, Donna. I think he'll pull through."

She responds more to your declaration than the doctor's. You're the voice of God tonight, as far as she's concerned, and she starts to tremble. Faster than a heartbeat, faster than the zinging vibration of a bullet whizzing past your ear. "Oh, my God, Josh," she sobs into your suit jacket.

"He's asking for you," you whisper at her temple as you hug her. "I can't promise he'll still be awake when you get there, but I think it'd be good if you were the next thing he sees when he opens his eyes. Can you do that, Donna?"

She nods, lifting her tear-streaked face. "Where's his room?"

"Just a second," Mrs. Landingham interrupts. "Where's your purse?"

Donna looks as if she's just been asked the smallest monetary unit of Sri Lanka. "I...I don't know."

"Then here's mine." The tough, no-nonsense lady locates her handbag and fishes around for a moment. "Here. You need to powder your nose and put on some lipstick or you'll scare him."

The compact falls through Donna's shaking fingers and the impact makes you jump before you realize that it's not a bullet, not a maniac, just a mirror that's shattered into several jagged pieces. Donna groans and starts to apologize, but Mrs. Landingham cuts her off.

"Never mind that, dear. Lift up your face." The woman squints as she applies some powder and lipstick, then rubs Donna's pale cheeks until there's finally some color to them. "There. You don't ever go into someone's sickroom looking worse than they do."

You wonder for a moment if she's talking about you. You don't know, don't want to know, what you look like right now.

"Thank you, Mrs. Landingham," Donna says as she stands up. Her knees wobble and she has to steady herself on the back of the chair.

"Leo McGarry, where are your manners? Give her your arm - she hasn't eaten or closed her eyes since last night."

You decline to say that she probably hasn't either - Mrs. Landingham has her standards and far be it from you to naysay them. As graciously as a lord to a lady, you lace Donna's arm through the crook of your elbow and cover her hand with yours, patting gently. "I'll take you to the ICU, Donna. Mrs. Landingham, get someone to take you home. I've got a couple Secret Service guys guarding Josh and they'll look in on Donna, make sure she's okay."

"Are you sure? I don't mind..."

"Go."

"I could just wait..."

"Begone."

"Really, it's no trouble..."

"Exit hurriedly, pursued by a bear!" You grin at the old broad and she wags her finger at you, but she's smiling as she gathers her things and you start walking Donna down the corridor.

The second hand on the clock is noisy. Tick, tick, tick. Three ticks of the clock, one way or another, and someone else would've taken the hits. How many permutations on tragedy could there be?

You're brought back to the moment by Donna's voice, quavering with emotion. "She was wonderful to me. She didn't leave me alone for a minute, and she didn't let me give up hope."

"I won't, either," you promise as you keep walking with her.

Her heels make an irregular staccato beat on the linoleum. You look at her, this strange creature who flitted in from nowhere and became an integral part of the team. Hell, no one can keep Josh in line except Donna, and you don't want to allow yourself to guess what would've happened to her if he'd...

"Are you all right?" Donna asks as you realize your hands are shaking again.

"I'm fine. Thanks for asking." You stop her outside the door to the ICU and make a quick introduction to the Secret Service agents who are hovering outside. "You ready?"

"Yeah." She pauses and runs her fingers through her ponytail. "Yeah. Let's go."

Her fingernails dig into your arm when she sees Josh, tubes and wires connected to his limp body. She stifles a gasp, and you squeeze her hand to encourage her. "Go on. Talk to him."

She walks over to the side of the bed, her smile quivering in time with the heart monitor. "Josh?" is her whisper, soft as breath. She looks up at the doctor, who is making notes on a chart. "Can I hold his hand?"

"Sure. Just be careful of the monitor on his finger. There's a chair- you can pull it up and sit next to him, but stay off the bed, okay?"

She's already dragging the chair as close as she can to his bedside. Your eyes water as you watch her slip her fingers through Josh's. "I've never seen him like this. So...still. He's always moving. Always."

You think he looks like he's in a coffin, but you keep that to yourself.

"He's doing much better than we could have hoped for," the doctor assures her. "He'll be in and out of consciousness and he's on a lot of pain meds, so don't expect him to be too chatty."

"Okay." Donna rests her weight on her elbows with Josh's hand between hers, and she lifts his fingers to her lips. "Joshua, you hang in there, okay?"

"Donna..." His voice is raspy from fourteen hours of intubation, but it's a little stronger than when he had spoken to the President. "I'm sorry..."

"Ssh, ssh, it's okay. Don't try to talk."

Josh's eyelids are barely at half mast as he struggles to see Donna. "Don't go," he pleads.

You can see that with what little strength he possesses, Josh is trying to hold Donna's hand. She glances at you, pain radiating from every millimeter of her flesh, and bites her lip and blinks rapidly to forestall her tears. You send her a silent message of strength and she leans over the bed again. "I'm staying. Oh, God, Josh, I'm staying. And don't you go, either."

It's too intimate, too agonizingly beautiful to watch. You're relieved to see one of the agents beckoning to you and you hold up one finger to him, requesting a moment to say your goodbyes. "I gotta go now, Josh, but Donna's staying here with you. I'll tell everyone you're doing better."

"Safe?" Josh croaks.

What does that word mean anymore?

"Yeah. I've got guards outside and everything's gonna be okay. I promise."

He takes your word for it. "Okay." Josh tries to smile but he's obviously in too much pain, and a tear works its way from the corner of his eye. Donna wipes it away with a gentle finger and goes back to holding his hand.

"You take care, Donna," you say as you embrace her and press your lips to the crown of her head. Just for a moment. "Page me if you need anything."

"I have everything I need," she murmurs, already absorbed in watching Josh drift off to sleep.

You hear the steady beep of the heart monitor combined with the slow tap of Donna's tears on the bed. The seconds tick noisily by as you make your way to the agent.

"I'm sorry, sir," the young man says, "but Mr. Ziegler is running around, biting nurses' heads off because they won't release any information. The main desk is asking me to ask you to..."

"Rein him in?" You shake your head; they might as well ask you to ask the sun to rise in the southwest this morning. "I'll do what I can. Meanwhile, I need you to look after Mr. Lyman and Miss Moss. Anything she wants, anything she needs, she gets. You got my pager number?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, then leave me a message every half hour."

"Yes, Mr. McGarry."

You look the young man up and down and finally decide he looks trustworthy. You start walking back to the waiting room, past the rhythmic screeching of gurney wheels and the distant sound of sirens.

C.J. is alone in the waiting room, pulling chairs and tables together and frowning at the paltry repast of beige hospital food. You've never seen her look this haggard.

"I sent Danny to find something better than this. How's Josh doing?"

"Donna's with him and I've got two agents on the door. He was awake for a couple minutes, pretty far out of it but fighting really hard already. The doctor says it's looking good."

"Oh, thank God." She puts her hand over her heart and sighs, suddenly looking younger, less exhausted. "We've got to tell Toby. He's a wreck. And Sam."

"I'll go with you." You wince at the sudden pain down your left leg. "Man, I must've hit the pavement harder than I thought."

"Me, too. And my necklace broke." She touches the back of her neck. You wonder if Sam's told her yet - you only figured it out yourself about three hours ago. C.J.'s voice cracks. "Josh. My God."

I know, C.J., I know." You move some facial muscles around and hope you look avuncular. "We're all going to live through this, you know."

She grants you a wan smile. "I know. Let's go find Toby before he strangles a candy striper."

Her heels click, the sound echoing off the walls. They only get a few feet down the hall when Sam bounds up alongside them. His jaw is twitching and his body is shaking. "Leo...?"

In your agitation over the President, you've forgotten that these two men are you and the President in another thirty years. Brothers, more than brothers, a bond broken only by death. And death has passed too closely over Sam's brother tonight. You try to erase from your auditory memory Sam's anguished call to Josh as the doctors had wheeled him into the trauma room, the words tight and strained over the footfall of the well-trained medical team.

"He's gonna be okay, Sam." You wish there were more to say, but that's as much as Sam can hear right now.

"You saw him?"

"Yeah, twice. Once with the President - who's doing just fine, by the way..."

Sam swallows and hangs his head. His multitasking skills extend to feeling guilty about thirty things at once. "I'm sorry."

"Nah, don't worry. I understand. Anyhow, Josh was awake and he asked for Donna, so she's sitting with him."

"Can I see him?" Sam's eyes are stormy. Terrified.

"The doctor says no crowds, but we can take a peek in the window, maybe find Toby along the way. Come on." The three of you head for the ICU, C.J.'s footsteps marking a regular rhythm, Sam's hard-soled shoes tapping along in an impatient backbeat, and your own shuffle sounding like a piece from another era.

"Oh, God, poor Donna," C.J. whispers as they all watch Donna hunched over Josh's motionless body, her thin shoulders shaking with sobs.

"She held it in so long. I know how she feels," Sam says, and his voice shatters. He waves away C.J.'s comforting hand. You watch in agony as Sam's face crumbles and tears begin to fall. Embarrassed, Sam turns away from you, from the sight of his best friend lying helpless in the aftermath of someone's sick, twisted deed.

You know what you have to do. "C.J., will you excuse us?" you ask, and she nods as she compresses her lips into a thin line. You nudge Sam's arm with yours. His is rigid. "Let's go." You lead him down the hall to a staff lounge guarded by two agents. It's where the First Lady can rest, but she's not there, so you commandeer the room for yourself. "Sit," you tell Sam, and obediently he collapses into a chair.

"Leo, I'm...I'm sorry..."

"Yeah, I know. But you can't let Josh see you like that. You can't let Donna, either, or you'll scare her to death." You can't keep the stern expression going, especially when you put your hand on his shoulder and peer down into his lost, hopeful face. "I know it hurts, Sam. I know it hurts. I know you'd rather be the one in that bed. Believe me, I understand exactly how you feel right now."

Sam rubs his eyes with his knuckles, his foot tapping restlessly on the floor, one-two, one-two, the same speed as Josh's heart. "How do you do it, Leo? How do you manage to pick us up, dust us off, and set us on the right path?"

"It's not easy." You take a seat and lean back in the chair. "Given the events of the last fifteen hours, I'd rather be anywhere but here. I'd like to hide under a rock until it's all over. I'd like a drink."

"Leo..."

God bless the boy, he's worried. "I'm not gonna, Sam. I'm just saying." He nods, satisfied that you're not going on a bender. You wonder what Mallory's said to him about those sodden days. "There's nothing I can do but hold up the best I can and make the necessary arrangements. Right now, that's being available for the President, making sure Donna's okay, keeping you and C.J. and Toby from falling into a hole you can't climb out of, and making sure that no insane son-of-a-bitch ever, ever, lays a finger on Josh Lyman." You give Sam an appraising look and he straightens up like a puppy that wants to please its trainer. "I'd like to have your help in this."

"Yeah." Sam nods, blinking fast. "You know you do."

You know that you will be able to rely on him, that his fidelity is unshakable, but not now. "Good," you say as you get up. Sam starts to rise as well, but you press his shoulders to keep him in his seat. "Right now, the best way to help Josh is to get this out of your system. We'll be in the waiting room when you're done."

"I...yeah. Thanks, Leo." His lips twitch and his eyes fill with tears. "If Donna gets tired..."

"She won't. But if she does, I'll find you."

By this time, Sam can only nod. You close the door just in time to hear the wracking sobs come faster and faster.

Damn.

You'll send C.J. in to him later. Now you have to find Toby.

And that's not difficult, because you can hear his baritone bellow from ten doors down. "What is the good of being the Communications Director of the White House if no one is willing to communicate with me?"

You hurry your steps, noticing that you're still limping, until you find the source of the din. Toby is standing toe-to-toe with a surgical nurse, her scrubs stained crimson that's already fading to a rusty brown.

"I heard you the first five hundred times," says the sturdy blonde, who barely comes up to Toby's armpit but seems to be holding her own in the war of information.

"Excuse me," you say in your most conciliatory tone. "My name is Leo McGarry, I'm the Chief of Staff..."

"You're in charge of him?" the nurse asks, tilting her head at Toby. "Sooner you than me."

You like her. You wish you had your glasses on so you could see her nametag.

"Leo, she won't tell me how Josh is." Toby's voice is stiff. Staccato, as if lingering on any one word would turn into a howl of frustration.

"I've seen him. He woke up a couple times and talked. Donna's in with him now, and we'll send Sam if she needs a break."

"He woke up?" Toby ran his hand over his forehead and down through the shock of graying hair above his nape, "This, someone couldn't bother to tell me?"

"Sir, how could I know Mr. Lyman's current condition when you've had me cornered in here for the past half hour?"

Toby blinks, the angry fire in his eyes simmering down to worried embarrassment. "She has a point, Leo," he says to you.

"Yes, she does, so how about you apologize and let her get off her feet?"

"I'm sorry. I..." His voice trails off and he stares at her blood-spattered uniform. "Dear God. There's so much blood." He looks over at you and you watch in horror as his face drains of color. "That's Josh's blood."

"I know, Toby," you whisper.

"It was all over me. I saw him from behind, and he looked like he was catching his breath, so I asked him if he was okay. Then when I got to the front of him he couldn't talk, he was bleeding so hard, and he looked at me and he was so..." The words come faster and  
faster, an uncontrolled accellerando. "There was all that blood and when I caught him it poured all over me..."

The nurse's entire demeanor changes, softens. She puts her arm through Toby's. "Maybe you should sit for a while, Mr. Ziegler."

"No." Toby's intelligent countenance was replaced by a terrified, terrifying blank stare. "I just..." He puts his hands out, palms down. "It's on my hands. Under my nails. It was there, on everything I touched today. I can't wash it off. I can still smell it."

You stand rooted to the spot, hoping that the pain in your chest isn't a heart attack.

The nurse nods, smoothing Toby's hand. "I'll tell you what - let's go to where we scrub up and I bet we can get that off you, okay?" She leads him away, this bewildered bear, and flashes a compassionate smile back at you. "I'll bring him to the waiting area in a few minutes, Mr. McGarry."

"Thank you." It's autopilot. You don't know if you've said thank you or asked the average monthly rainfall on Pluto.

How has this happened, that so few bullets could wound so many people? What's next? Who will fall - if not in a hail of bullets, then in an avalanche of guilt?

You go back to the waiting room, your numb feet barely supporting your weight. Danny's in there with C.J., pressing his thumbs into her shoulder blades as she tilts her head back and forth. "Hey, Leo. C.J. says Josh is doing better."

"He's stable. Which is more than I can say for the rest of us right about now." You take the seat next to C.J. and pat her arm. "Toby's with a nurse, trying to get Josh's blood off, and I left Sam crying his eyes out in a staff lounge."

"Good for Sam," C.J. whispers, not looking at anyone. "I'd like to do that right here and now."

"You can, you know," you tell her, although in your heart you pray that she won't because if she breaks, too, then you'll lose it.

"No," she answers. "If I let myself start, I don't think I could ever stop."

"Yeah, I know that. I wish...well, it doesn't matter what I wish."

You wish you could stop hearing the gunshots in your head. You wish you could rid yourself of the gripping, gnawing fear. You wish you knew a way to comfort these people when your own heart is so, so heavy.

Danny gives you a sad smile. "I appreciate you letting me ride here with you. Josh is..."

"Josh is good grist for your mill," Sam says from his vantage point in the doorway. He's gone from sorrow to anger. He looks like a study in black and white, his skin pasty except for the dark circles under his eyes.

"I was going to say, Josh is my friend." Danny manages not to sound like he's admonishing Sam, and you add yet another mental note to leak him a really, really good story sometime in the near future.

Sam, chastened, nods at him and then goes to C.J. for an embrace. "I'm sorry," Sam mutters to Danny over C.J.'s shoulder.

"Not a problem. I'd think the same thing, if I were you. But I want to make it clear that I'm off the clock tonight. I'm here as a human being, not a reporter."

"So you admit there's a difference?" Sam asks, and you're so relieved that he's making a joke that you can't bring yourself to get angry at him.

"That's enough, boys," you say, but you're smiling and it feels unfamiliar to really mean it. You look at the vast array of food that's cooling on the table. "Now, is anyone actually gonna eat this stuff?"

They stare at you. Were you speaking English?

"Guys, we've been up for about 48 hours straight. And in that time, who's eaten? Who's put anything besides caffeine into their systems?

No one volunteers any information.

"Then we eat," you declare.

Forks clink against plates, ice rattles in cups, feet stir underneath the table. A chair leg squawks against the floor as Toby joins you. Salt whispers its way from the shaker to someone's french fries. C.J. puts a sandwich in a styrofoam box, the lid squeaking as she shuts it, then you hear her heels tapping on the floor as she takes it to Donna.

These are familiar sounds that will fall once more into a normal rhythm. It's only a matter of time until it becomes percussion instead of repercussion, the cadence of survival.

### End 


End file.
